Back to the Start
by OfPearlsAndShoelaces
Summary: When a hijacked Peeta returns from the Capitol, Katniss is whisked backwards in time. Given a second chance to change the course of events, will she be able to swallow her pride and seize the opportunity?


**This originated as an outtake from Part 8 of my multi- chap fic, **_**More Than Words**_**. It didn't quite fit into the story, but I was a little bit in love with the idea so I did some adjusting to make it into a stand- alone one-shot. It is not necessary to read MTW to understand this; all you need to know is that Katniss and Peeta are much more familiar with each other and they have had sex several times by this point. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games. I'm just borrowing the characters.**

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><p>The entire scene seems to happen in slow motion.<p>

After six long weeks, Peeta is back. Finally, _finally_, I can see him again, touch him, hold him. The giddiness is almost overwhelming after the haze of depression I've lived in for the better part of two months.

He looks up when I enter the hospital room in a frenzied rush, sweeps the doctors aside, and meets me in the middle of the room. I don't realize that something is not right in the depths of his eyes until it is too late, and when his hands close around my neck, my last fleeting wish is for a quick death.

The blackness overcomes me and I am sinking into its depths when it happens. The dazzling white light of the sun is blinding after my descent into darkness. A floral- scented breeze wafts under my nose. Puffy clouds drift lazily across a powder blue sky. The balmy weather of a late summer afternoon. A silver train is just visible on the tracks in the distance.

The scene is vaguely familiar, and yet it is all wrong. We should be in the dead of winter. And yet a swaying, grassy field surrounds me. In my hand I clutch a bouquet of pink and white flowers. Wild onions.

And then I see him. Peeta. But he's no longer thin and sallow- skinned. There are no bags under his eyes or tremors in his hands. In fact, he looks fresh- faced and strong. His skin has the unmistakably radiant glow of a recent full- body scrub. His hair is perfectly coifed. And there is something inherently boyish about the way he looks at me now.

I reach out to touch him, to make sure that he is real, but he jumps away from me as though my hand is a lightning bolt.

"Well?" His tone demands an answer, but I have none to give him.

"What?"

He shakes his head angrily. "It was all for the Games, Katniss! The way you acted." His voice cracks and I can tell that he is on the verge of tears. He starts to back away from me and my heart sinks. Now I know why this scene feels so familiar. We're on our way home from our first Hunger Games. We have just been freshly crowned as victors. We have no idea what is yet to come. And I'm about to break Peeta's heart.

"Wait, Peeta!" I jog after him, keeping a constricting hold on my flowers. He turns reluctantly toward me.

"Save it," he says.

"Please, listen to me," I beg. I've relived this scene a million times since it happened, desperately wishing I could do it over again. And here is my chance. There is no time to ponder the notion of why this is happening now, or even _how_ it is happening at all. But I'll take it. Peeta is still staring at me, waiting. "It… it wasn't all for the Games."

He raises a skeptical eyebrow. "Then how much? No, forget that. I guess the real question is what's going to be left when we get back home?"

"I don't know," I say honestly. He turns to stalk away from me again, but I grab his arm. "I don't know!" I repeat. "But I know that I need you, Peeta. I know that you're the only person in the world who can understand what I've been through because you were there with me! And I know that without you I'll fall apart. I'll lose myself without you next to me! And you need me too. For all the same reasons."

Peeta's eyes narrow with a mixture of confusion and disbelief. None of it makes any sense to him. Of course it doesn't. He has no clue what is to come in the following months. The disastrous victory tour, the fresh hardships on our home district, even the Quarter Quell- none of it means to him at this point. I don't know how to make him see.

There's only one option. I step closer to him, and this time he does not turn away. He allows me to come within inches of his face. His shallow breaths ghost over my lips. I circle my arms around his neck and pull him down for a kiss.

At first, he does not respond. In all my experience kissing Peeta, he is usually the instigator. I'm not sure exactly what do when he does not respond to this one, so I just stand there with my lips pressed to his and sigh into him, willing him to move. And he does. Slowly, he wraps his arms around me and relaxes, moving his mouth against mine. With his encouragement, the kiss builds, and so does my craving for more. I think I could stand on these train tracks forever just kissing Peeta, and I would be happy.

When his tongue slips inside my mouth, my whole body begins to thrum with energy. I grip him tighter, my tongue tangling eagerly with his and the hand not clutching my flowers roaming freely through his hair. His are wound in my braid, securing me to him as though he is afraid I'll run away if he doesn't hold me in place. But I have no intention of going anywhere. Not since the beach in the Quarter Quell have I felt even remotely this good. Warmth trickles all the way down my spine from the point where his hands meet my skin, pooling in my stomach and reaching out to my fingers and toes.

It adds a new vigor, a fresh desperation to the kiss. I take the lead from Peeta, sucking on his tongue and coaxing a groan to rumble up from the back of his throat. I swallow the sound eagerly. The stirrings of his erection press against my stomach and Peeta tries to shift away from me. He doesn't know that I am intimately familiar with this part of his body; he's brought me more pleasure than I could ever imagine possible, even when he was not with me. I'm embarrassed to admit it even to myself, the times when I stroked myself to a desperate release to the memory of him on far too many endless nights spent in his absence. So I hold Peeta fast to me now, enjoying the effect this kiss is having on him.

He takes the hint and relaxes against me again, allowing me to feel the full effect of his swelling member. I wish I could respond in kind and guide his hand to my center, which is hot and positively dripping for him. Then maybe he'll know exactly how I feel about him and I won't have to say the words. But something tells me that would scare him off.

When we break apart with a soft smacking sound, he rests his forehead against mine, breathing heavily. His normally pale cheeks are flushed and pink as the flowers I'm still strangling in a death grip. We don't speak for a long time. "If you need me, I'll be there," he whispers eventually.

"Thank you," I breathe. He reaches for my hand and leads me back to the train, and I think how much better these long months leading up to the Victory Tour will be without the cold, awkward distance between us. I crawl into my bed, perhaps not happy, but content and secure in the knowledge that Peeta will not abandon me this time.

But when next I wake, it is in a hospital bed with a cold plastic collar around my throat, concealing the wounds left there by the boy who promised to be there for me always. I can almost detect the distinct scent of the flowers given to me by that innocent blushing boy a lifetime ago, but there are none to be found here, and I weep.

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><p><strong>Thank you for reading. Reviews are always welcome, and I'm everlarkstoastbabies on tumblr. Follow me for Everlark goodness!<strong>


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